


tête-à-tête

by Elendraug



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s09e02 Devil May Care, Frottage, Handcuffs, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Masturbation, NOT RAPE, actually consensual I am not joking, general punching and blood etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendraug/pseuds/Elendraug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Save me from this empty life, save me from this place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tête-à-tête

**Author's Note:**

> written over the course of a few months, occasionally while tipsy (ty new amsterdam); dually inspired by [these](https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=JeZg_bvifEM) [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=UIdFOMCtgns).
> 
> but seriously you guys, where is the Crevin fandom
> 
> if you're not already participating in [Kevin Tran Week](http://elendraug.tumblr.com/post/83722094977/may-the-fourth-be-with-you-5-4-2012-marks-the-air), you ought to be.

_“What say we walk out those doors together? What say we both win?”_

Kevin stares him down even as he’s considering the offer. As much as he loathes Crowley, he’s even more furious to be trapped in this miserable place. For all the Winchesters’ posturing that he’s free to leave, he knows better.

They’d never let him past the threshold. Granted, that doesn’t mean Crowley is any better.

“Why should I believe anything you say?” 

"Because I'm a man of my word." Crowley grins at him with bloodied teeth. "And because your mom's life depends on it."

"Shut up about her!"

He's letting Crowley push his buttons, and he knows it. He should've avoided the dungeon entirely, resisted the urge to beat him senseless, ignored the taunting and focused instead on the bunker's stockpile of exotic ingredients.

“You’ve got a selection of toys over there to make me shut up.” Crowley regards the slowly clotting mess on his knuckles as casually as if he were just examining his nails. “Get creative. You can do better than a hammer.”

Kevin leaps forward to seize Crowley’s throat. His fingers compete with the metal collar; he’s unable to get as tight a grip as he wants, but with his thumbs digging up under Crowley’s jawbone, it’s almost satisfying enough. Almost.

Crowley laughs. The sound isn’t quite cut off by Kevin’s efforts. “It’s so easy to get you worked up,” he chokes. “Though it’s never been a challenge—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!”

“I could get used to hearing you scream,” he leers. “Didn’t get my fix last time around.”

Kevin pulls back to punch him again. His technique, if it can be called that, is sloppy, unpracticed, and pathetic. Rage goes only so far, and Crowley has nothing if not time. Blood trickles down from his nostrils, settles onto his upper lip, and paints his incisors when he chuckles.

“You feel any better?” Crowley taunts. “Ought to hit me some more, just to be sure.”

Kevin presses the heel of his palm into Crowley’s nose and smears blood across his face, and when Crowley’s response is more laughter, he loses it.

“What part of this is fucking _funny_ to you?”

“You. Been bossed around since you left the cradle, and now you’re taking it out on the King of Hell.” Crowley licks blood away from his lips, eyes Kevin predatorily, and sings gruffly. “You’re _moving on up!_ ”

The joke is lost on Kevin, who never watched much Nick at Nite. He doesn’t have much time to reflect on it, however: Crowley’s cock is visible through the wool of his trousers. Kevin can’t avoid staring, can’t help himself, and shouts accusations. “You’re getting off on this?!”

With a low rumble of laughter, Crowley nods towards Kevin and smirks. “Aren’t you?”

Kevin’s heart thunders in his chest. He’s hard in his jeans, but he’d chalked it up to adrenaline. He clenches his fists uselessly at his sides. “I’m… I’m not…”

With his most self-satisfied grin yet, Crowley unzips his fly. He has just enough room with the cuffs to maneuver out his dick and stroke it, sliding the foreskin up over his glans and back down again to expose himself. He huffs back a deep sigh and watches for Kevin’s reaction.

Kevin, of course, is mortified.

“What are you _doing_!?” he demands. He’s never felt so scandalized, so shocked, so… he doesn’t even have the words, but to his infinite chagrin, he can feel his pulse in his groin and he can’t look away. Crowley’s dick is _huge_. Kevin hasn’t seen an uncut dick before, except maybe in porn once or twice, but never in person.

“Pleasuring myself,” he explains, hand moving smoothly up and down his length. “Obviously.”

Kevin shifts his weight in an attempt to ease his discomfort, but he’s still transfixed and turned on with his erection sneaking down his pant leg. “Why?”

He’s not sure he wants the answer.

“You’ve gotten me hot and bothered.” There’s precome already beading at the tip of Crowley’s cock, sticky where it clings to his foreskin. “Not often I get roughed up by someone so devilishly handsome. Not often enough for my taste, at any rate.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence, save for Crowley’s increasingly labored breathing. Kevin shuffles awkwardly for a minute before Crowley continues, stroking himself all the while. “What’re you waiting for?”

“It’s a trick,” Kevin insists. His voice catches in his throat. “You’re going to tell the Winchesters.”

Crowley barks a laugh, indignant. “You think they’d believe that? You think they’d take _my_ word for it?” He tilts his head down to the side, and lifts a hand in a parody of a phone. “‘Yes, hello, Dean? Prophet and I just wanked together. Don’t hang up. ...hello?” He stares at his hand, shrugs, and goes back to playing with himself, his gaze locked with Kevin’s. “Whip it out, Kev.”

At this point Kevin’s aching to be touched and motivated nearly by spite. If Crowley’s going to enjoy himself against all odds, why _shouldn’t_ he? He can’t walk back upstairs like this. The Winchesters could be back at any minute. If they were going to do this, it had to be fast.

Kevin capitulates and unzips his fly. Crowley settles back into the chair as comfortably as he can while chained, and watches with intense interest as Kevin pulls his underwear down just enough for the waistband to avoid trapping his balls. He’s cut, Crowley realizes, and silently curses Michigan for its interference.

“Go on, then.” Crowley’s voice is as low as it’s ever been. “Let’s see what tickles the Prophet’s fancy.”

Kevin tells himself it’s all just for the sake of getting off, so there’s no chance of ascending the stairs with an awkwardly stiff gait and finding Sam and Dean blocking the path to his bedroom. That would be way worse, wouldn’t it? Crowley has no leverage here.

He closes his eyes and settles into a familiar rhythm. Normally it wouldn’t take long for him to reach a quick release, but normally, he doesn’t have an audience, either. He moves his hand softly, steadily, and shivers without meaning to.

“Forget Abaddon, you’re _my_ type,” Crowley remarks. 

Kevin opens his eyes to see Crowley’s half-lidded and fixated on the impromptu show. “So you’ve got something in common with her?”

Crowley snorts. “She wishes she was this good.” 

“You’ve jacked off with her?” Kevin holds Crowley’s gaze and speeds up his movements, squeezing indulgently at the base of his dick. “There’s _so much_ I don’t know about you!”

“Whatever game you’re trying to play won’t work, Kevin. I’m not so preoccupied with her that it’d ruin my appreciation for this tryst.” Crowley lets his mouth hang slightly open when he’s done speaking. He glances down at his own efforts and grins approvingly before looking back up at Kevin. “How’s about some mercy on a starving man, and you let me suck your cock?”

The offer makes his dick twitch, but he can’t accept. “No way. You’ll bite me.”

“I’m hurt that you’d think such an awful thing,” Crowley says, faux-offended. “Only if you were into it, sweetheart.”

Kevin lifts his eyebrows and gives Crowley a completely unapologetic look. “Sorry. Don’t trust you.”

Crowley nods toward him, in lieu of gesturing with his occupied hands. “Drop the pretense and your pants and get over here.”

Kevin sputters. “But I’m—”

“This is a joint venture, so I suggest you get over it if you want to have a good time.” Crowley pats his thigh. “Come to daddy.”

There are some phrases Kevin never thought would turn him on, that by all rights _shouldn’t_ , but hearing Crowley talk like that sends heat coiling tight in the pit of his stomach. If he’s being honest with himself (which he isn’t), he’s been fascinated by the girth of Crowley’s cock since this whole incident began, and the urge to touch him hasn’t gone away.

Masturbating a few feet away didn’t do anything to calm that impulse.

Kevin isn’t willing to abandon his shoes with the questionable state of the dungeon floor, so his pants are staying decidedly on. By the time he’s worked up the nerve to straddle Crowley’s lap, his erection has flagged.

“Don’t try anything,” Kevin warns, and Crowley just chuckles.

“Poor darling,” he soothes. “Let me take care of that for you.”

Even with limited movement from the cuffs, Crowley busies himself with fondling Kevin back to full hardness. Crowley uses both hands to press their lengths together and stroke them in tandem, slowly for lack of lubrication. Despite himself, Kevin lifts his arms to loop around Crowley’s shoulders. The heavy chain is cold against his wrists; Kevin tugs down the sleeves of his henley to avoid the issue.

Kevin’s never done anything like this, but he’s not about to mention that. When Crowley’s thumb sweeps precome across both of them, Kevin is unable to bite back a moan.

“Look at you,” Crowley murmurs. “Bit of frot takes the fight right out of you.”

Kevin closes his eyes and concentrates on his breathing, on the quiet sounds of skin on skin. “It feels good,” he counters. “Has nothing to do with you. Doesn’t matter who it is.” 

“It doesn’t matter?” Crowley leans in to speak against Kevin’s jawline, beard against stubble. “What a little whore you are.”

“Fuck off,” Kevin snaps, but there’s only a fraction of the previous venom. 

“Is that what you _really_ want?” ‘Husky’ doesn’t begin to describe Crowley’s voice. “I doubt it.”

Crowley catches Kevin’s mouth on an exhale and kisses him slowly. Kevin freezes, briefly, before returning the action with doubled force. He can feel Crowley smile into it, and when Crowley touches the tip of his tongue to Kevin’s, Kevin lets out the most embarrassingly needy sound he’s ever heard himself make. _God_ , he’s a good kisser, it’s _unfair_. Crowley tastes like blood; Kevin doesn’t actually mind, and wonders why he doesn’t find that more disturbing.

The steady, loose movements of his shackled hands continue until Kevin’s squirming, bucking his hips, eager and desperate for more of the same heavy press of Crowley’s dick alongside his own. Crowley finally breaks away from making out to mouth along Kevin’s neck. He speeds up his stroking, now that they’re both leaking precome.

“You’re going to come for me,” he instructs, his voice as smooth as gravel. “And you’re going to think about exactly who brought you to your orgasm, whose cock you’ve been rutting against, and how thoroughly I’ve spoiled you.”

“You bastard,” Kevin chokes, biting back a groan. “I hate you.”

“Maybe, but you love this.”

Crowley picks an arbitrary spot below Kevin’s earlobe to lick and suckle at, and that along with the consistent pumping of Crowley’s strong hands brings him off. Kevin lets out a throaty, stuttering moan as he comes, spilling sticky and hot on Crowley’s tightened fist. His abs clench rhythmically with every spurt, and he turns his head for a kiss that Crowley won’t grant. Instead, he ducks his forehead to Crowley’s shoulder, nudged between his arm and Crowley’s restraints.

Kevin’s still gasping for air as Crowley leisurely brings himself off. He takes harsh breaths that aren’t strictly necessary, and admires their combined mess as he coaxes out the last few shuddering twitches of his climax.

Stubborn and insistent, Kevin cuts off whatever Crowley’s about to say by kissing him fiercely, his fingers tugging almost violently at his short hair. Crowley meets him with equal enthusiasm and resumes his fondling with half the earlier vigor. Lazy, hedonistic, and conflicted: in truth, Crowley wouldn’t have it any other way.

“All that pent-up anger, and for what?” Crowley muses. “You know, this is how bonobos settle disputes.”

“Don’t quote trivia at me.” Kevin’s tone hovers between ‘annoyed’ and ‘resigned’, and he can’t decide which is more accurate. He stands up on shaky legs and tucks himself back into his jeans. “This didn’t happen.”

Crowley pantomimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key, but there’s a dangerous hint of amusement in his expression that Kevin will never, ever be able to trust. 

“Feel like bringing me a rag?” Crowley asks.

There’s a sudden commotion upstairs, with slamming doors and shouting. Kevin blanches. “Shit!”

“Grab your books, you’re in the clear.” Crowley waves him off, unperturbed. “Bear in mind they’d never suspect this, not in a thousand years.”

Kevin hardly expected any genuine reassurance from the King of Hell, but so it was. He nods, his lips pressed into a thin line, and absconds. He flicks off the lights on his way out of the dungeon.

Crowley hums a measure from Simon and Garfunkel, and folds his hands in his lap.


End file.
